


Nous protégeons

by salvage



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e19 Letharia Vulpina, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvage/pseuds/salvage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately post-Letharia Vulpina. Chris and Derek in the aftermath of the explosion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nous protégeons

**Author's Note:**

> I can't even begin to articulate how excited I was that Teen Wolf finally gave fodder to my weirdo rarepair ship. I couldn't help but write a coda to the episode. A sexy coda. 
> 
> There are somewhat graphic descriptions of Chris removing glass from Derek's shoulder; please exercise caution if that sort of thing disturbs you.

Derek is blinking hazily at Chris and listing slightly to one side; Chris suspects his hands on Derek’s arms may be the only thing holding the man up. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” Derek mumbles, even as he winces when Chris turns him slightly. The dim light in the station catches on the sharp edges of glass shards protruding from Derek’s shoulder.

“You saved my life,” Chris says wonderingly, looking again to Derek’s pale face.

Derek’s eyes close and for a moment, his features slacken. Then he twitches, inhales sharply, teeth bared in a grimace. “I’m okay,” he repeats.

“You’re clearly not.” One of Derek’s hands clasps Chris’s elbow and Derek tries to weakly steady himself with it. He’s still listing a little to his right. Those who aren’t too injured are dragging themselves off the floor, footsteps crunching through broken glass and debris. Names are being called. Sirens have begun to wail in the distance. “EMTs should be here in a minute,” Chris says.

“No!” Derek’s eyes snap open. “I can’t see doctors. The healing.”

“Fucking werewolves,” Chris sighs. “Jesus. Okay.” By this point, anyone who can be mobile is mobile; the wounded are already being tended to. The sirens are getting closer. “We’ll grab a medical kit. Come with me.”

Chris maneuvers them so that they’re side by side, Derek’s arm around Chris’s shoulders, Chris’s around Derek’s waist. They shuffle over to the nearest desk and Chris starts rooting through drawers, shuffling aside papers and office supplies until he finds a penlight in one and, thank god, a little medical kit in the back of another. By this point Derek is supporting more of his own weight but he still sticks close to Chris, one arm heavy across Chris’s shoulders, fingertips digging in to get leverage when Chris shifts. The station erupts into a different type of chaos as the first ambulance arrives, followed by a wave of people, some in uniform, some in civilian clothing.

They manage to work their way along the walls, away from the crowd; looking relatively unharmed, they escape notice. They turn down an empty, dark hallway lined with doors. The first door opens onto a small interview room. Fortunately, the fluorescent overhead light in this room flickers on when Chris tries the switch.

“Sit,” Chris says, and he gently maneuvers Derek until he’s sitting backwards on a metal chair, facing away from the table. He himself perches on the edge of the table and sorts through the medical kit until he finds a pair of tweezers and a pair of latex gloves, a packet of sterilizing wipes though Derek probably doesn’t need them. “I’m going to take the bigger ones out first so you can get your coat off.”

Derek grunts in what Chris assumes is assent. Chris shines the flashlight directly on Derek’s left shoulder; the shards sticking out of it glint dully in the light. He grabs the largest one and pulls. Derek stifles a noise. The glass tears free of his skin with a little resistance and a sickening squelching sound. When Chris drops it beside him on the table there’s a delicate clink. He works the next shard free with a little less effort, then the next one, then the next... Derek’s uneven breathing is the only sound in the room.

“Okay,” Chris says. He sets the flashlight on the table and it rolls a little, the circle of light trailing across the opposite wall. “Let’s get your coat off.” He eases his gloved hands between Derek’s collarbones and the jacket, lifting it away and sliding it down Derek’s arms when Derek rolls his shoulders back. It crumples to the floor with a soft sound. Chris fishes a pair of scissors out of the kit and slices a neat, straight line down the back of Derek’s shirt, then peels it away from his wounded shoulder. There are only a few glass shards embedded this deeply in his skin. Derek’s skin is pale beneath the dark smears of drying blood except for an already-green bruise that stretches across his back to disappear under his shirt.

The last three shards don’t go easy; Chris has to dig the tweezers under one thin, viciously pointed piece to pry it loose from where the skin has healed around it. “Breathe,” he reminds Derek. A trickle of blood slides down Derek’s back. Chris waits for Derek to take another breath before he yanks the last shard free. Derek exhales shakily. “You don’t have any in your scalp, do you?” Chris asks. He’s not quite joking.

“No.” Derek raises a hand to brush through his hair anyway, stirring up a small puff of dust.

Chris cleans Derek’s shoulder with alcohol to remove the dried blood; even the largest cuts are now just angry pink lines. The bruise is gone. Derek rolls his formerly injured shoulder. They can still hear indistinct noises coming from outside the quiet room: shouting, sirens. Something clattering, like a chair being tossed aside.

“Do werewolves experience adrenaline come down?” Chris can already feel his hands, devoid of something to do, start to shake. The off-white fingertips of the gloves are smudged with a pale layer of blood.

“Not as much as humans do, no.” Derek hitches the collar of his ruined shirt up. His voice sounds steady.

“I can almost see the appeal,” Chris jokes, hooking useless fingers under the wrist of one glove and jerking it off, then repeating the process with the other glove. He presses his hands, still dusty from the gloves, to the edge of the table he’s leaning against.

Derek stands, shoving the chair away, and turns around to pick up his jacket where it fell at Chris’s feet. “My burst eardrum is healed, too,” he says with a little smirk. He still has a smudge of blood on one cheek, though the scrape it came from has healed. His eyelashes are long and dark, throw shadows down one cheek.

“Fucking werewolves,” Chris says again, shaking his head. His ears are still ringing but he’s able to ignore it. “Thank you.” Derek looks up from his bloodstained jacket. “Thank you for saving my life,” Chris repeats. He presses his fingertips into the bottom of the table to stop them shaking.

“It’s—fine,” Derek responds.

Nous protégeons, Allison’s voice echoes in his mind. He remembers Derek pushing the officer to the floor before throwing himself over Chris, blunt fingertips pressing painfully into the skin of Chris’s neck as Derek held him down. Claws sheathed.

Derek’s standing close enough to him that if he pushed off the table they’d be chest to chest; before he can think about it, the adrenaline still electrifying his bloodstream makes the decision for him. Derek fists his hands in the front of Chris’s jacket, tugging them together across the few inches that separated their bodies. Chris can feel his heart pounding. Their mouths collide.

Derek’s fangs aren’t out but he’s making no effort to keep his teeth away from Chris’s mouth. It hurts, and Chris is giving as good as he’s getting, and he wraps a hand under Derek’s bicep though Derek isn’t going anywhere. Derek presses his hips into Chris’s, and Chris moves back just enough to be trapped between Derek and the metal interrogation table behind him. Derek growls and Chris can feel it in his own chest.

When Derek tugs roughly on the lapels of Chris’s jacket Chris has a strange moment of remembering how gently he slid Derek’s jacket off of him only a few minutes ago; he takes his hands off of Derek just long enough to toss the jacket aside and then he’s shoving Derek’s shirt up until Derek peels it off. Derek's skin is pale and slides smoothly over well-defined muscles. Chris can't tell if it's a werewolf thing or if it's been so long since he was young that he can't remember ever having a body that looked like carved marble, muscles thrown into stark relief under wan fluorescent lights. 

When Derek surges toward him he falls back against the edge of the table hard enough to push it back a few inches with a grating metallic screech. He lets out a breathless laugh against Derek's mouth and though he wouldn't swear to it, he thinks he sees the corner of Derek's mouth raise just a little. 

He catches Derek off guard when he tilts his weight forward and shoves the other man backwards, but it's three steps until Derek's back will hit the wall and Chris knows with his strength he couldn't force Derek to go anywhere. The air leaves Derek's lungs in a huff when Chris slams him back, grinding their hips together just a little too hard. Derek drags his hand between them until his palm is flat on Chris's stomach. Chris exhales, open-mouthed, against Derek's throat, but he won't beg. There’s a single agonizing moment of stillness. 

It’s almost as if Chris takes pity on the both of them by making the first move, but there’s nothing of pity in the way he roughly tugs Derek’s jeans open and curls his hand around Derek’s hard cock. Derek fails to stifle a growl. His hands scrabble blindly under Chris’s shirt as Chris jerks him a few times. 

Derek’s hands are surprisingly steady when he unfastens the button and zipper to Chris’s jeans. They don’t look at each other, but find a rhythm in each other’s hands and hot breaths exhaled blindly against skin. Derek comes first, silently, left hand clutching desperately at Chris’s hip. Chris feels himself say, “Oh,” involuntarily, as the warmth and slickness of Derek’s come spills over his cock, lubricating Derek’s hand, and he feels the flat, blunt edges of human teeth pinch at the tender skin of his neck and he comes. 

Chris’s forehead is pressed into the curve of Derek’s bare shoulder, hot and damp with sweat. Derek nips at Chris’s neck again, though Chris isn’t sure he’s actually aware of what he’s doing. The room is silent and smells like sex. 

“Right,” Chris says to himself. They draw away from each other and spend an awkward moment cleaning themselves up with sterilizing wipes from the medical kit, studiously avoiding eye contact. 

Derek examines his shirt when he picks it up off the floor. “I don’t think you can salvage it,” Chris says with a little smile. Derek raises an eyebrow just slightly as he pulls it on, collar noticeably looser than it was before Chris sliced halfway down the back. “The jacket, either.” 

“As long as nobody notices the blood.” Derek shrugs his jacket on. 

“It’s why we wear black, isn’t it.” They’re as presentable as they’re going to look.

“You realize they’re gonna arrest us again if we go back out there,” Derek says when Chris has his hand on the doorknob.

“Yeah, they are.” They lock eyes but Derek’s aren’t challenging, only searching. He glances at the pile of bloodied glass on the table, then back to Chris. 

“After you.”


End file.
